Come on, he thought, you can do it.
..five-one thousand, six...
Christie grabbed the next CD from the top of the stack and slid it into the player labeled CD-3. A moment later, she was rewarded with the chords of an old Bryan Adams song. Not the next song on the printed music log, but way better than that thrumming noise. Quickly, she pulled the volume down on the stalled CD player. I should have done that before.
She tried to pull the failed disc out of CD-2. It wouldn't come out. Uh-oh. Tell me I didn't break it.
The phone rang, one more note for the symphony of her jangled nerves. She went to pick it up, then thought, wait. She cued the next song in CD-1, careful to set it for the right track, so she'd be ready for the next break. Then she answered the phone.
"KYOR," she said in her best professional radio voice. Belatedly she noticed the call had come in on the hotline, the one reserved for on-air business.
"Is it CD-2 again?" She recognized Rick's voice, not that he bothered to identify himself. Well, hello to you too.
"Yes."
"It does that," he said. "We just got it back from the repair shop last week. Either they didn't do the job right, or it's really on its last legs. Use a butter knife."
"What?"
"A butter knife. Slip in a butter knife from the kitchen and you can get the disc out. I wouldn't bother trying to use the player again tonight, though."
"Thanks." She looked at the display, counting the time backward on the song, trying to calculate whether she had time for a run down the hall to the kitchen before her next song. 3:06 to go.
"Oh, and Christie?" She heard a little edge of humor creep into the deep voice.
"What?" How am I doing?
"That song isn't on the play list."
Rats. She started to grope for another disc.
"Go ahead and leave it on. It's not out of format."
"Okay," she said. 2:37 to go.
"And Christie?"
She shut her eyes tight and braced herself. "What?"
"You sound good."
A ton of bricks fell off her shoulders. "Thanks." It was the first nice thing she could remember him saying to her since the day she was hired, and she was annoyed at how gratifying it felt. "I'd better get that butter knife."
"You do that. Have a good night."
She hung up, refusing to ponder the nuance of his words like a lovesick sophomore. She sprinted to the kitchen, opened a few drawers and found a butter knife sharing a drawer with a million plastic forks, a few stray napkins, and a slew of fast-food salsa packets.
She returned to the studio just before her song faded. As she cued the other CD player and tried to free the jammed disc, she glanced above the shelf to see a butter knife that had clearly been left there for just that purpose.
"Way to tell me about the butter knife," she said to Yvonne the next afternoon.
Yvonne spun around on the studio's tall stool. "Oh, hon, I'm sorry. I didn't think. We just got the thing back from the shop. I thought it was okay." She made a face. "If it's any consolation, it did the same thing to me this morning."
"Mark didn't tell you? I warned him."
Yvonne shrugged. "That's McKeon for you." Mark McKeon had been every bit as pleasant as Rob had led her to expect, with barely two words of greeting for her and no introduction. "So, other than that, how'd it go?"
"I made it through. I don't think I did any permanent damage, at least."
"I'm sure you were fine. So what brings you back here so soon, anyway? You're about ten hours early for your next shift."
"Well, really, I wondered if there was anything I could do for you. I'm not used to having so many hours free during the day, and-" Christie broke off. "Oh, heck, who am I kidding? I just couldn't stay away. I'll help you with anything I can get my hands on. As long as I'm not getting in your way."
"Beginner's fever?" Something glinted in Yvonne's eyes, and Christie could see her considering the possibilities. Then the hot line rang. "Hang on. Rick's out on a live broadcast." She flipped the switch that let her use the microphone to talk over the phone line. "Hey, babe. How's it going out there?" Hearing the casual familiarity gave Christie a prickly little feeling that she didn't like.
"Running out of prizes." Rick's voice boomed cheerily out of the monitor speakers overhead. "And we've got an hour to go. I was thinking about holding a drawing for the station van. Or Ed's Mercedes. What do you think?"
Yvonne chuckled. "It's your funeral." She started the machine to record the break. "Ready when you are."
Rick's voice shifted into full-on announcer mode. "Hi, Yvonne, I'm here at the grand opening of Mich elle's Crafts and Collectibles, here on Fifth and Hancock, where they've got ..."